Road to the Dales Page 3

  ‘There’s a thing,’ said the headmaster, smiling. ‘Your predecessor as the Senior Inspector for English in North Yorkshire was a David Spearman.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I told him. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

  The headmaster leaned back in his chair and gave a wry smile. ‘ “Spear-carrier”, eh?’ he repeated. ‘Well, I should think that that’s a very appropriate handle for a school inspector.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I replied. ‘I always seem to be on the sharp end of things in this line of work.’

  ‘I wasn’t meaning that,’ said the headmaster. ‘I have always been of the opinion that school inspectors are like cross-eyed javelin throwers. They hurl a lot of spears in the direction of schools, missing the point most of the time, but occasionally, and by sheer accident, they happen to hit the right target. Good afternoon to you, Mr Phinn.’

  Now I delight in my unusual name. It is unique. Go on the internet and type in a name like John Smith and there will be millions and millions of hits, but there is only one Gervase Phinn. Any success I have had with my books is due, in no small part, to my name. Following my reading of the Dales books on Radio Four’s Book of the Week, people would go into bookshops and ask for ‘the book by the school inspector with the funny name’ and booksellers would know immediately what the customer was looking for. Shakespeare’s Juliet got it tragically wrong. ‘What’s in a name?’ she asks Romeo. ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Actually there is quite a lot in a name.

  Recently I received a delighted letter from a new and very proud father. He informed me that his wife had been taken to hospital to have their overdue baby induced. Neither of them was keen for the baby to be brought into the world artificially. Then, as his wife lay in bed listening to my Dales books on tape, she began to giggle and then chuckle and soon she was convulsed with uncontrollable laughter. It brought the baby on.

  ‘We are so grateful to you,’ he wrote, ‘that you hastened the arrival of our little baby son.’

  I wrote back congratulating the new parents. ‘Perhaps you might like to call your son Gervase, after me,’ I suggested mischievously.

  ‘We are not that grateful,’ came back the reply.

  3

  I cannot recount the number of times I have had to spell the name Phinn. It has appeared as ‘Flynn’, ‘Finn’, ‘Thin’, ‘Tinn’, ‘Pinn’, ‘Sinn’ and ‘Chinn’. My favourite appeared when I was in my first year of teaching. A letter arrived addressed to ‘Mr Phunn, Master-in-Charge-of-Games’.

  ‘All Phunn and games, eh, Gervase?’ Mr Morgan, headteacher, remarked dryly as he passed me the letter.

  In that first year of teaching, a distressed mother on parents’ evening confided in me: ‘I’m really very worried about my son’s spelling, Mr Perhinn.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Atkinson,’ I reassured her, ‘your Perhillip is doing very well.’

  The surname Phinn, I was to learn, has a long and distinguished provenance. Those who investigate their past, searching through records, visiting churches to pore over the registers of births and deaths, scanning the census returns, surfing the internet, are ever hopeful that they will discover a famous (or indeed infamous) forebear. I have visions that one day, when I find the time, I will investigate my family history to discover that I am a direct descendant of dashing Sir Rupert Phinn, Cavalier commander at the Battle of Barnsley, Admiral Lord Horatio Phinn, hero of a great naval battle in Bridlington Bay, Lady Georgiana Phinn, mistress of George IV, Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Phinn, the famous Irish playwright and shining wit. Of course, I have an idea that to my chagrin I will discover I come from a long line of builders, farm labourers, domestic servants and factory workers.

  The family name, until relatively recently, was the common enough Irish name Finn. My forebears, on my father’s side, are said to have fled Ireland during the Great Famine of 1846 and settled in Scotland. Dad always maintained that we were descendants of the great Irish king Fionn McCool (the fair-headed one), of folklore fame, who lived two and a half thousand years ago, and that one day we would move to the great castle in Ireland when he claimed his birthright. He was a great storyteller was my father.

  Grandfather James Finn married a Scot, Margaret Helen Macdonald. She was something of a snob by all accounts and exceedingly proud of her Scottish ancestry and her Scottish Catholicism, asserting that she was descended from the ancient clan of Macdonald of South Uist, that bleak island of great melancholy stretches of heather-covered moors and bogland in the Outer Hebrides. It is not generally known that a large number of the inhabitants of these islands are Roman Catholic. They trace back their ancestry in those remote outposts many centuries, undisturbed by the turmoil of the Reformation, and have kept a faith that dates back to the ancient Celtic Church.

  At the time of my grandparents’ marriage there was much anti-Irish racism in Scotland, so she styled herself Mrs Macdonald-Phinn, to disguise any Irish connections and place her ‘a cut above’ the hoi polloi. All the children of the marriage – John, Hessie, Nellie, Alexander and my father, Richard Joseph – were burdened with the double-barrelled surname. Joining the Royal Air Force my Uncle Alec, upon informing the commanding officer that his name was Alexander James Macdonald-Phinn, was told: ‘Well, at ease, all four of you.’

  My father told me that it was well known in the family that ‘Grannie Mac’ would never shop at Campbell’s Butchers in the High Street, not after ‘what that treacherous, deceitful band of scoundrels and poltroons did at Glencoe’. It was on 13 February 1692 that ‘the abominable, false, cunning and perfidious’ Campbells, ‘the best of them to be pitied but never to be trusted’, massacred the Macdonalds in the cold and lonely valley where, to this day, no birds are said to sing. She evidently had a very good memory, my grandmother.

  On the anniversary of the massacre she would read the ‘Lament of Glencoe’ to her five children.

  Chill was the air and deep was the snow,

  And the cold moon gave scant light,

  When the treacherous Campbells fell on Glencoe

  Like a wolf pack in the night.

  With sword and knife, they spared no life,

  With blood they bathed the ground.

  Man and boy, woman and bairn,

  They murdered all they found.

  In January 1979 I was appointed Head of the English Department at St John Fisher Roman Catholic High School in Sheffield. The headmaster was a Mr Campbell. On the anniversary of the massacre I wore a black tie and Sister Brendan, a teaching colleague, enquired why I was wearing it. It took her a time, innocent as she was, to fully appreciate my unusual sense of humour. In graphic detail, I explained to the nun that the defenceless Macdonalds had been put to ‘fire and sword’ by the very people who had offered them hospitality. Without warning, I told her, Captain Campbell of Glenlyon and his troops fell upon the community, burning all the houses and massacring the people. Some thirty-eight out of 200 inhabitants, including MacIain himself, the clan chief, were cut down that day by the vulpine Campbells. Others, who had fled into the mountains, died in the next week from cold and starvation.

  ‘But what has this to do with you?’ asked the baffled nun. ‘You are called Phinn, not Macdonald.’

  ‘My grandmother was a Macdonald,’ I told her.

  ‘And whenever did this terrible thing happen?’ she continued, imagining that it was something which had occurred but a few years before.

  ‘1692,’ I told her, keeping a deadly serious face.

  ‘1692!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘And when, on this day of all days, sister,’ I continued, shaking my head sadly and keeping a deadly solemn face, ‘Mr Campbell sees the black tie, he will know the significance and feel suitably ashamed.’

  ‘I think it’s about time to bury the hatchet, Mr Phinn,’ said the nun, clearly believing me to be serious. ‘All the troubles of the world are caused by people harbouring resentments and remembering past wrongs.
I think it’s about time you learnt to forgive and forget.’

  ‘Easier said than done, sister,’ I replied ponderously. ‘Easier said than done.’

  After assembly, the headmaster approached me to discuss a timetable change. Sister Brendan watched like a hungry blackbird as he left the stage and walked with a determined step in my direction. I touched my tie and looked knowingly at her and nodded.

  ‘What did Mr Campbell say to you after assembly?’ asked the nun at morning break.

  ‘He apologized, of course,’ I told her before going on yard duty.

  Following my grandfather’s death (he was an engineer and died of enteric fever in Peru), my grandmother remarried a Mr Craig. One wonders if she continued in life with a triple-barrelled name. On her death, when my father was fourteen, the five Phinn children were dispersed. John left for America, Hessie and Nellie moved south, Alec joined the Royal Air Force and my father went to live on an uncle’s farm in Kirkintulloch before joining the army on his seventeenth birthday.

  A photograph of ‘Grannie Mac’ shows a tall, elegant and superior-looking woman in black, her dark hair scraped back savagely on her scalp and her long white hands clasped before her. She had never experienced illness all her life and died as she would have wished – on her knees. At the conclusion of a Celebration Mass at the Scottish Convention of the Union of Catholic Mothers, my grandmother stood as the priest left the altar, made the Sign of the Cross, knelt down and promptly expired.

  The only possessions that her children inherited were her rosary beads, a few photographs and a faded sampler in a plain wooden frame, reputedly embroidered by an ancestor.

  Do, by your fair endeavours profess,

  An elegance of mind, as well as dress.

  Be this your ornament and know to please

  By graceful nature’s unaffected ease.

  And do not think that by another’s shame

  You can raise your merit or adorn your fame.

  – Mary Margaret Macdonald, 1801

  I should like to think that Margaret Helen Macdonald-Phinn remained true to these words.

  My brother Alec, who lives on the shores of Galway Bay, was so heartily tired of the misspelling of his surname and, I guess, wanting to stress his Irish ancestry, that he changed the name back to the original. When he was touring America with his Irish folk group, De Dannan, he undertook a bit of family history research and discovered a John Phinn in the telephone book in the town in Maine where my uncle was said to have settled. My brother telephoned, said he thought he might be a nephew, made an appointment and arrived at an extremely elegant house. The door was answered by a large friendly man. ‘I’m John Phinn,’ he said, smiling widely, ‘and I’ve been expecting you.’ Then they both burst into fits of laughter. John Phinn was black.

  Having passed the training as an OFSTED Registered Inspector, I received my certificate officially authorizing Mr G. Phinn to lead inspections in schools. A week later I received a second certificate officially authorizing a Mr G. Dhin to do the same. Then all the official materials, guidelines, policies, code of conduct and updates arrived from London – in duplicate. One wet Monday morning Brian, the good-humoured and hard-pressed postman, stood panting at the door, weighed down by large brown paper packages.

  ‘Are you living with a Sikh?’ he asked, unburdening himself.

  Each week Brian would knock on the door with yet another consignment of parcels and letters. He would then watch me bemused as I headed for the garage, where I kept the inspection documents in two heavy metal lockable cupboards. It must have appeared highly suspicious. One morning he waited at the gate as I unlocked the garage, crept into the darkness, clicked on the flickering light and unlocked the metal cupboard where I stashed away the brown paper parcels. After observing me for a moment, he asked, ‘Are you into pornography, then?’ I explained that nothing could be further from the truth.

  Despite contacting OFSTED head office in London, the duplicated materials continued to arrive and also letters addressed to the fictitious Mr G. Dhin. One was an invitation to join an inspection team preparing to visit a multiracial, multicultural inner city school. ‘We feel it would be appropriate, Mr Dhin,’ wrote the lead inspector, ‘to have on our team of inspectors a member of the ethnic minority.’ I imagine that they thought I was Gunga Din.

  4

  There is a whole lot of truth in the old Irish proverb: ‘One good mother is worth a hundred schoolmasters.’ In my view, the relationship between the child and the parent is the most critical influence on that child’s life, and it is the mother in particular who has the most significant effect. She can make a child’s life joyous or miserable, she can encourage or disparage, she can build up a child’s feeling of self-worth or stress his limitations, she can hurt or heal. She can promote respect, give security and support self-fulfilment for her child or she can be critical, neglectful and disregard his suffering. How a child views the world and how he fits into it is largely down to his mother.

  My mother was a remarkable person and my greatest teacher. When I was young I thought that all children had mothers like mine: loving, funny, generous, ever-supportive, who took out their false teeth and pretended to be witches, who baked them gingerbread men, discussed things with them, sang songs and wrote them little stories. I thought that all children had mothers who told wild and wonderful tales, cracked jokes, played tricks, teased them gently. For as long as I could remember, since I was a small boy, I always felt valued and loved and perceived myself to be her favourite. ‘A man who has been the indisputable favourite of his mother,’ wrote Sigmund Freud, ‘keeps for life the feeling of a conqueror, that confidence of success which often induces success.’ Any success I have had in life is due in no small part to the influence of my mother.

  My mother inherited my grandmother’s fine features: clear blue eyes, long dark eyelashes, fine hands, thick black hair and a soft oval face. She looked every inch an Irish colleen. As a child I imagined all mothers washed clothes, ironed shirts, pressed trousers, darned socks, did the shopping, cleaned the windows, swept the carpets, baked cakes, cooked the dinner, paid the bills, organized parties, attended school parents’ meetings, went to the school plays, looked after their children when we were ill, sat with them at the dentist’s and did innumerable other things, as well as holding down a full-time job. I thought all children like me had brothers who let them play with their toys, mended their bikes and taught them the guitar, and sisters who showed them how to sew and paint and helped them with their homework. I imagined that all homes had books and stories, music and laughter, courtesy and good manners, honesty and love. It is only now I am older and have met countless numbers of children in the schools I have visited that I appreciate just how very special my parents were and how hard they tried to bring the four of us up to be honest and decent young people. Now, in later life, I know for sure that the earliest influences of home and environment and the special relationship of a child with his or her mother have a deep and long-lasting effect on the character of the future man or woman.

  I was raised to believe in myself, to never pretend to be something I was not and never deny my roots or be ashamed of my humble origins. ‘Remember,’ my mother was wont to say, ‘whoever exalts himself shall be humbled and whoever humbles himself shall be exalted.’ Mum disliked pomposity and people with affectations, was never judgemental, never held me up for mockery or ridicule and, most importantly for a shy and idealistic child of average ability, never derided my dreams. I always felt that she wanted me to have a mind of my own, to stand out from the crowd and not be like everyone else.

  Much has been written by psychologists and ‘child experts’ about the significance of birth order in a family. Last-born children, it is said, are generally very different from their siblings, particularly when compared with those who are born into a family first. The last child to arrive in an established family is said to be more altruistic, emotionally secure, empathetic and when small is more likely
to relate to other children. He or she is said to be less conscientious and more good-humoured, less conventional and more unpredictable, more open to experiences, more affectionate and at times more rebellious. It is said that the last-born is more likely to embrace risk-taking and excel in contact sports. Well, the experts certainly got it wrong with me. As a child I was nearly the very opposite – shy, under-confident, conscientious, conventional, well-behaved, an ordinary little boy of average intelligence who was pretty hopeless at all contact sports.

  I have many vivid memories of my mother when I was little. She was a tall, full-figured woman but she moved vigorously and laughed easily, stroked my head tenderly as I passed, called me a dozen endearing names and never missed an opportunity of telling me how very special I was. Behind her constant good humour and practicality, she possessed that special quality of making others feel good about themselves. She had an unswerving religious belief. Hers was a simple faith based on the words of Jesus that we should do unto others as we would wish they would do unto us. Another favourite biblical quote was, ‘I was hungry and you gave me to eat … insofar as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me.’

  So I grew up against a background of care and gentleness, good humour and discipline. She pinned my first pictures from the infant school on the cupboard in the kitchen, admired my feeble attempts at playing the piano, told me what a good reader I was and I knew what it felt like to be proud. She laughed at my jokes, made me birthday cakes with white icing and coloured candles and always kissed me goodnight and I knew what it felt like to be loved. What I learnt from my mother was that love, genuine love, unconditional love sees goodness and constantly emphasizes it. It is about compassion and care, support and encouragement, and every child is entitled to that.